


Re-Reading Harry Potter

by Tibbins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 23:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12095310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibbins/pseuds/Tibbins
Summary: Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.





	Re-Reading Harry Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, so it's been absolutely forever since I posted anything on here but this is a piece I just really wanted to share. I wrote it one week for my uni class. The prompt given was 'Longing'.  
> I hope you like it.  
> Enjoy ^_^

As I walk I let my fingertips brush the wall until it hurts, following the river of stone to avoid the shores of the portrait frames. The occupants wave at me as I pass, despite my obvious non-belonging and turn to their neighbours to whisper the secrets of the remembered. A tapestry bars my way, a heavy bolt of cloth that I have to push aside to continue, it smells of mothballs and magic. My steps echo on the worn stone, the comforting slap of sole on floor makes me sigh out a laugh as I remember the mischief caused here. The giant mirror, behind which a pair of redheads once crouched, grinning identically as their creations wreaked havoc. I see myself in this place and a sadness sparks in my chest. I’m too old to be here. If this were a different mirror, the hidden mirror that dwells on dreams, I would see the same thing. Black robes emblazoned with an eagle crest in blue and bronze that fills my eyes with memories. I wanted this. More than anything, I want this. I look away from the mirror and move on.

 

One-hundred-and-forty-two staircases and I know exactly which steps to jump. I have walked them all, slid my hand along their banisters, felt the thrill as they jolt into life, following them to wherever they want to take me. The corridors blur together, long stretches of yellowed stone pockmarked with ash and veined with warmth. I wish I knew them better, I wish I could count the dust motes and pick out the exact shade of each one. I wish I could recite from memory which corridors have carpet and which lead nowhere and which have corners or tall ceilings or steps, but I can’t. I pass through one with a faded runner down the middle, golden swirls blooming from its centre, dappled with sunlight from the poorly fitted windows, stone spilling out from beneath it to pool overhead in a point. A dusty breeze smelling of spring plays with my hair as I continue to walk, passing a translucent figure that glides through a wall on my left. I am one of them now, tethered to this place forever. I climb up a tower staircase, up and around until I’m almost dizzy, water drips and echoes musically from somewhere deeper within.

  
I emerge in a circular room, almost blinded by the glare coming from the lake far below, the stone is paler here, as bright as life. Straight ahead is a door with a brass eagle head knocker. I reach out for it, my steps muffled by the deep blue rug. I stroke the knocker and its beak opens.

“Where do broken people go?”

The voice is as clear and rhythmical as the dripping water.

“Here.” I whisper, placing my hand flat on the wood grain.

“The evidence certainly suggests so,” the door replies.

It swings inward and I stare in wonder at the eagle banners, overstuffed blue armchairs and the marble statue of a woman wearing an important tiara.

  
              _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure._

This is where I should have grown up. This room that smells of old leather-bound pages and gunpowder with bookshelves embedded in the walls, the books overflowing into piles, glass phials containing some kind of mysterious liquid in one corner and a breath-taking view of the grounds, the forest and the lake that leads me outside onto the balcony, where a couple of telescopes are twisted together. How could one fail to be inspired here? This should have been my place.

  
A broom leans against the wall of the balcony. I take it, swing a leg over and grip the handle firmly. The mahogany is smooth and sleek, a Nimbus 2000. I push off from the floor and pull the handle upwards slightly, so I do no more than clip my toes on the balcony wall. I lean forward to speed up, just for fun. The wind blows away my laughter, my robes whipping out behind me, I can hear the crowds chanting, a sea of green booing, an eagle shrieking its support from the head of a girl with dirty blonde hair. A little nauseous, I level out. I’m now high above the tower, looking down the way an owl might, spires and steep angles, blue-grey slate and stone walls. A lake surrounded by snow-kissed mountains, deep and seemingly endless. The forest directly below me spreads like an ink blot out to the horizon. A whole world reduced to this one, picturesque image. It looks like a model of a thing, almost as disappointing as it is awe-inspiring. There’s no texture up here. The air cleans my lungs with each breath, sharp and fresh. I push on the handle of the broom and lower myself in front of the trees. The broom hangs where I leave it.

  
A one room hut squats in front of me, on the very edge of the forest. Hexagonal in shape made of crude slabs of rock slathered together. A chimney happily puffs out smoke and the small window is propped open, a large silhouette passes by from the inside. I grin at the tuneless humming, the booming barks and the occasional squawk of a young dragon. I walk up to the door and knock. It flings open in welcome. I step inside and am immediately drenched in warmth. There’s a merry fire in the grate and three steaming mugs on the table, shards of a nasty surprise hastily swept under the empty dog bed. Squeaks and rustling. Silvery hairs hang from the ceiling in bunches along with sweet-smelling herbs and rusty tools. A battered pink umbrella leans next to the bed.

“You hide out here, like you’re ashamed,” I say to the empty hut, “but it wouldn’t be right without you.”

  
I close the door on my way out and the humming starts up again, friendly claws scrabble at the wood, making it shake. I smile and walk away. I glance back at the forest, the dark trees fading to shadow, I’ll explore them another time. I’ll follow all the paths I know and find some I don’t, re-discover the webbed hollow, where an old friend of the man in the hut once dwelled and listen for the hoofbeats of philosophers as they search the sky for truth. Instead I walk towards the lake, my shoes silent on the tamed grass, taking my time, enjoying the sun. I pause at the beech tree where four best friends once sat, joking and complaining and showing off, the exact same place that a skinny boy with a scar, a redhead covered with freckles, and a bookworm with large front teeth and bushy brown hair also came to relax. This is where they would stare out lazily at the bright expanse of the lake and the dark presence underneath its surface. I wonder if they would have liked me. I turn back towards the castle. The huge front doors exude a power that engulfs me as I get closer to them. I embrace it, become it, part of the protection and the power and the hope. I am the story. I push on the wood and it creaks, giving way to gleaming marble tiles, more friendly portraits and the grand staircase that takes up almost the entire back wall. A dark doorway to the left leads down, a soft green glow coming from it. Instead I turn right. I face the gigantic hourglasses; rubies, sapphires, emeralds and yellow diamonds all hovering in the top halves, waiting for the praise of being released. I push forward, into the great hall. Aptly named. Four long wooden tables stretch almost the length of it, a fifth faces me, purple, red, green, blue and yellow banners flutter gently from the ceiling that shows the beautiful day coming to its close. The hall rings with chatter and scraping cutlery, laughter and the smells of all food ever served here, a golden podium is directly in front of me. I walk up to it and face the empty hall.

 

_Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak._

I close my eyes and let my other senses experience this place, clinking glasses, owls hooting, the occasional explosion and scream, bouillabaisse and roast beef, puddings of all kinds, pumpkin juice and mint humbugs. The sounds and smells of happiness, of good food and friendship. Of chess games and splinching and the final, mortal end. I hear the body hit the floor with a mundane thud. A shocked silence. Tears prick at my eyes, tears of joy and regret and a longing that will never go away.

“Thank you,” I choke on the lump in my throat, “thank you, for hearing me.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is. I put a lot of emotion into this piece and it's really personal to me. All feedback, kudos, comments etc are always welcome. I will try to check this more often so I might actually get back to people rather than discovering a comment from over 1000 days ago and realising that person would be very confused if I replied now.  
> Thank you so much.  
> Love Tibbins xx


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